Bright Lights
by wonderwoundedhearers
Summary: Magician and his assistant AU. Andrew Gold is an ex-famous magician falling from stardom and Belle French is his last hope of reaching the big-time once again. Lang/Lem.
1. Part One

**Author's Note**: I'm expecting this to be in (approx.) three parts, as it's already half-written. Please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading!_  
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* * *

From the first moment he sees her, he knows she isn't the one to fill the position as his much-needed assistant.

And it isn't because her step is a little off in her high heels, or her smile isn't bright enough, or any of the other things his previous assistant – Regina Mills, who has turned up to laugh at her possible replacements – will have you believe.

No, it is because Belle French is sin on a stick, and temptation has never boded well for him. As his tutor – Zoso the Great – has always said, "_The girls are for looking at, not touching_."

Which had been why he had chosen Regina in the first place, three years ago, because she's a cool-headed ice-queen who can charm the pants off the audience but who he doesn't want to go near with a twenty-foot fucking barge pole.

Unfortunately for him, Regina is also a backstabbing bitch who wants the big-time just as badly as he does. So, after sucking him dry of all his knowledge and her cut of the cash, she had moved on to the next poor bastard. Hunter – a young regular on the circuit – had taken her in gladly a couple of months ago, and, to be honest, Gold is glad he is shot of her, even if it leaves him high and dry with a solo act.

But, just like that, Regina had come swanning in to the village hall in the arse-end of nowhere where he is holding auditions – and, quite frankly, scraping the bottom of the barrel with – in his nationwide search for a woman who isn't afraid of letting him cut her in half and make her disappear in the same show.

Regina had slammed one of his damp flyers – with all the dates and places of auditions on it – down on the wobbly table he sits behind in front of the tiny, wooden stage, making the first girl jump out of her skin, and had told him that she didn't want to miss it for the world.

The fact that she hadn't turned up to all the other towns he'd driven through in his old, beaten, blue Ford Fiesta, looking for a new assistant, tells him that something is afoot, but he knows prying anything out of Regina Mills is like putting a ham-wrapped hand straight into the mouth of a starving Rottweiler: he's bound to lose something important.

So he lets Regina sit at the table with him in her designer kit and sunglasses – in the middle of the wettest fucking January England has seen for forty years – and he lets her heckle the girls that trot in through the side door of the hall.

Because if they can handle _her_, then they can handle any audience on Earth.

Belle French is beautiful and charming, with long dark curls and striking blue eyes, and she reads out the lines he gives her in a clear and attractive way, with a soft and worn twang of an accent that he finds intriguing and lends something to her stage persona, rather than detracts. She also has cracking legs, which he has a good long look at.

She seems like the type of girl that he'd rather go into a relationship with than business, and Regina's harsh and biting comments make it easy to dismiss Belle French with the usual crap about having her number and letting her know.

"Yes, _thank you_, Verna," Regina says in that usual, thinly-veiled, saccharine tone of hers. "Perhaps a little less glitter and a little more _substance_ next time."

Belle French ignores her, steps off of the stage with a polite _'thank you for your time_,' puts her long coat back over her glittery dress and tights, and gives him a lingering look as she leaves through the door she had come through, out into the rain.

When the girls have all come and gone, Regina leaves with a self-satisfied smile and a flick of her short dark hair, saying something about just passing through and catching the train to London. Gold wonders why she came at all, but for all her walls and tight-lipped nature, she's never been very good at hiding her hand of cards. He just needs to know how to read them.

So, he doesn't end up picking Belle French.

But because Fate is a cruel fucking mistress, he ends up _having to_.

The other girls – all three of them – who had auditioned were all a bust. The first was too clumsy, the second was five months pregnant, and the third was obviously on the bottle.

But then that's what Andrew – or _Gold the Magnificent_ – expects from his luck these days: a klutz, a mother-to-be, an alcoholic, and temptation with a smile in sparkly high fucking heels.

So he sits at the tiny desk in his hotel room at the local pub, listening to the lively, drunken chatter from downstairs and thinking _why_. Why did Regina come? Why does Belle French seem like such a natural? And why the hell is she the only woman he's come across in the past month that is anywhere near fit for the job?

He stares at the red, plastic, hotel telephone in front of him, ignoring the CV she's given him and the picture of her paper-clipped to the front. But, of course, he just has to look.

It is a professional shot, black and white, and she is posed in front of a pair of velvet stage curtains like she's just heard her name and turned in time to see the camera and smile. She's wearing her glittery dress, looking only a little younger than her current twenty-seven years, and she seems to still have an aura of innocence about her that she did not have at auditions earlier.

Andrew glances at the CV, finding nothing out of the ordinary between her stints as a florist and a waitress apart from one gap; there are seven years unaccounted for, between 2001 and her current job as village librarian.

He lets his head fall back with a sigh, shutting his eyes and warding off the itch to go downstairs or open up the mini-bar in search of a stiff drink. He needs to tell her she's got the job – if she still wants it that is, after Regina's machinations – but also needs to find out how she could have gone from being a waitress in Perth to a librarian in Kent. He doesn't need another scandal on his hands.

At least now he knows where the accent is from.

So he looks at her telephone number, and lifts the receiver of the old rotary dial phone. As he turns the dial for the corresponding numbers, he notices nothing on her CV about experience in show business. There is something niggling at him about it and her obvious talent.

The call connects while the dial quickly spins back into place. She answers on the second ring.

"Hello?"

Andrew sits up a little straighter in the hard-backed hotel chair and clears his throat. "Miss French?"

"This is Belle," she confirms, sounding a little more alert.

"I'm calling about the audition," he says. "Earlier today."

There is a pause on the other end of the line as he watches the rain battering the small window above the desk.

"Oh." She sounds stunned. "When you gave me the line about having my number, I didn't think you'd actually _call_."

He scratches his head, pushing his hand through his recent inch-long haircut. "Well, I did– I mean, I _am_."

"Right. Okay." Belle French seems more frazzled than stunned now. "Wow. Thank you."

He is unsure whether to be flattered or concerned with her gratitude.

"But I need you to clear a few things up for me," he tells her, eyes on the jump in her CV.

She is quiet for a moment, but he hears the sound of rustling, then a sigh. "Alright."

"Why the move?"

He can tell from the soft sound – almost of defeat – on the other end of the line that this is the question she has been hoping to avoid and expecting that he would ask.

"I'm sorry," she says immediately.

He puzzles over her apology, but says nothing, waiting and watching the rain.

Eventually, she speaks again. "I omitted on my résumé."

Andrew sighs and draws his hand down his face, thinking he is going to have to start auditions all over again in a new town if she's stayed at Her Majesty's pleasure.

"I've done the circuit before."

This, of all things, is not what he had been expecting to hear, but it doesn't come as a complete surprise.

"Alright." He sits back in his chair, a little more relaxed. "I'd like some details, if you don't mind."

"I worked as a florist in my father's shop in Perth," she tells him after a moment, sounding a little resigned. "We had a falling out about what I wanted to do with my life, so I moved into the city to get into acting. I had to make rent, so I got a job as a waitress. There was a big show one night, nearby, and the actors came to the café because we were the only place open after midnight. I was...talent-spotted, if you can call it that.

"The guy – the magician – said I should audition for his assistant, so I went along the next day and...he liked me. He got big, and we travelled. We left Australia, went to Vegas, and we were so close to getting _everything_...but he choked, said he had to go back to his roots, that the spotlight was too hot for him.

"We went to Wales, and he just...shut down. Eventually, he kicked me out, said it was too hard to even look at me any more because I just reminded him of everything he'd lost, said it was _my _fault. I was so angry. I went to Cardiff, London, Edinburgh – _everywhere_ – to look for work, but all I got was promises about call-backs. In the end, I met a friend – she's married now, off in Ireland – but I moved here a couple of years back, and I just let myself...forget. But when I saw your flyer on the church notice board it sort of woke me up...

"I'm sorry," she sighs softly. "I'm going on now."

Belle French, Andrew realises as she finishes her little speech and turns quiet, is a desperate soul – just like him – and one that deserves a second chance.

"Have you ever been arrested?" He asks, and she makes a confused sound, seemingly at the turn in conversation.

"No?"

He smothers any irritation he might feel. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"No." She sounds firmer. "No, I haven't. I don't do drugs or anything either, and I don't drink...you know, much."

Now he has to smother a smile. "Good. What about kids? A husband, boyfriend, lover, someone you'll be leaving behind?"

A pause. "I haven't been with anyone since him."

Ah, Andrew thinks, that's where she'd gone wrong. Never mix business with pleasure.

He has to clarify. "You understand this will be all business. I'm not looking for anything but a partner."

He wonders if he can really tell she's smiling when she says, "I know. That's why I'm still on the line. Although..."

"Go on."

"Your wife won't be coming with us, will she?" Belle queries, a little more tentatively.

It takes him a good minute, he'll admit, to figure out what she means, and when he does, he can't help the strangled laugh that escapes him.

"No," Andrew tells her, once his laughter has subsided into jolts of intermittent chuckling. "No, Regina won't be coming, and she's not my wife."

"Oh, good." Belle sounds more than relieved, and she laughs too. "She was _awful_."

Andrew smiles, looking out into the drizzly night, and already knows that something good is on the horizon, if he can just get over the way Belle French's sexy laugh makes him feel.

* * *

They had agreed on the phone that they would meet the next day in the pub to discuss matters over breakfast.

Andrew places an order for tea and a full English at the bar about nine o'clock, pays the narrow-eyed old lady there, and then takes a seat at a small centre table. He doesn't know why he feels so nervous as he runs a hand over his face and rolls up the sleeves of his jacket and cleanest shirt. But, perhaps, it's because he is _so close_.

He is so close to having an assistant – a _good_ one – and if this works, then he could have an act for the slot he's been picked for at the end of June, in the Edinburgh International Magic Festival.

It's pure luck he's got that as well – a chance meeting with an old acquaintance who had owed him a favour and is working as Artistic Director for the show. Jefferson had warned him though – "_No fucking up, or it's your head_."

Andrew doesn't blame him for being wary. After Milah's interview, he doesn't blame anyone for not wanting to take him on.

His ex-wife had branded him a pervert, after all, telling the fucking gossip hounds that he had taken in girls looking to be actresses and stage stars and done disgusting things with them.

He had been in a frenzy at the time, close to breaking into the big leagues, when Milah had turned up and told him that she wanted her son. _Her_ son, like she hadn't left him and Bailey destitute, scraping cash off club floors with a father-son magic act in Glasgow ten years past.

Andrew had been cocky, full of confidence and manly bravado – mainly because his then-girlfriend Delilah had been waiting back stage with champagne and no clothes on – and he hadn't seen it coming. He hadn't expected telling Milah to stick her wants where the sun doesn't shine to have such drastic consequences.

Consequences like getting Delilah – who was, he'll admit, a little green – to agree that he'd brought back confused and unwilling girls into their bed with promises of fame and fortune. Consequences like finding a veritable stream of desperate girls run ragged on the circuit to come forth and tell the world what a despicable and low-down human being he is.

Consequences like losing him his shot at nationwide and possibly _international_ fame.

He had been bested. But he hasn't been beaten, and she hasn't gotten her hands on Bae, because he is abroad, off in America pursuing his own dreams, and he is untouchable. It's like she hadn't even known he was twenty-one at the time and quite capable of finding his mother if he had wanted to, which he hadn't and still doesn't.

So Andrew has careened downwards after that, looking high and low for someone who could take him back _up_, and Regina had been all too happy to fulfil that role. But while she had pretended to be satisfied with the clubs and slowly rising through the ranks, she'd had no designs of staying with him indefinitely.

No, she had seen him as a sinking ship, but she had looted him first before letting him know it. But she has no idea about the festival – she must think he's still merely looking for someone to drown with him – and he likes it that way. Let her be surprised when he shoots out of the mud with Belle French on his arm, straight past her and Adam fucking Hunter.

Andrew is knocked out of his thoughts by a plate being put in front of him. He thanks the old woman – who seems to be acting as waitress as well as barmaid – and looks up just in time to see Belle French walking towards his table.

She is smiling.

"Mr Gold," she greets, once she's close enough, holding out her hand. "Good morning."

He stands and takes her fingers in his, giving them a squeeze and finding them warm and soft. "Thanks for coming."

"No problem," she practically chirps, unobtrusively fucking _sunny_ as she takes the other seat at the table as he retakes his. "I just rearranged my hours. There isn't much to do down at the library."

At that moment, the grey-haired woman returns with his tea and pours it at the table. She doesn't acknowledge Belle, but the younger woman has no such qualms.

Belle gives her a sunny smile. "Orange juice and Marmite on toast, please, Granny."

The older woman takes off without a word, leaving Andrew bemused, an eyebrow hitching on his forehead.

Belle answers his unspoken question. "We have a complicated relationship. It's her granddaughter I met in London and moved back here with, and I introduced Ruby to her Irishman. Granny blames me for Ruby leaving."

Andrew scoffs in amusement and starts in on his breakfast, eating slowly so as to draw out the time he has in which to think. And he's thinking about her, of course. She's entirely beautiful, with her curls and her eyes and her lips, and every inch of her seems to scream for him to touch her, from the soft notch at the base of her throat to her short and unpainted fingernails.

Her dress – a blue, floral thing – is not entirely suited to her. It's a frock made for an older woman – probably an unmarried one – and the pearl buttons remind him of his grandmother's false teeth. The watch on her right wrist is unfashionable, with a strap of thin leather and an oval face with Roman numerals, but, with what Andrew now knows of Belle French, it lends her an air of secrecy, of _mystery_. It's like she's a spy, deep undercover as a librarian in South East England, just waiting for her charade to end so she can burst like a fucking butterfly.

She has been stifled, he knows, and he wants to rekindle that flame. He wants to see the woman who got on stage yesterday, wearing nothing but glitter and a smile.

Belle receives her toast and her drink, and once the old lady, Granny, has gone, they are left once more to their own devices.

He's startled when he isn't the one to break the silence.

"So, I know who you are."

Andrew glances up to see Belle watching him over the rim of her glass.

He swallows. "Yeah?"

She nods. "And I just want to let you know that if you tell me those things weren't true, then I'll take your word for it."

He'd expected something like this, something about his 'past,' but not _exactly_ _this_. He had never considered understanding, or trust, or even the _chance_ of either, especially from a practical stranger.

He wants to tell her the truth, but, instead, he finds himself leaning forward and asking, "What do _you_ think?"

She looks at him for a moment, scanning him with those too-blue eyes, before giving a smile. "I think you've been screwed over, too."

"Well." He gives a half-snort, glancing down at the bacon he has speared on his fork. "You've got that right."

It's quiet for a moment, before he feels the urge to truly tell her that he isn't the man everyone thinks him to be.

"And I didn't," Andrew murmurs, putting his cutlery into one hand and taking up his mug of milky tea in the other. "I never did any of it."

Belle doesn't pause, or smile again, or say anything else. She just takes a bite of her toast, and he knows she believes him. They finish their breakfast in comfortable silence.

"Business?" Andrew suggests, clearing his throat once the plates have been taken away.

Belle nods, dusting her fingers of crumbs. "Sounds good."

He takes out a folded wad of paper from the inside pocket of his khaki jacket, straightens the bent pages, and passes it over to her. She eyes the cover page with a shrewd look, an eyebrow cocked.

"A contract."

He nods at her statement, placing his elbows on the table and resting his chin on top of his clasped hands. "I don't want you quitting out of the blue, and I'm sure you want reassurances, too. This way, we'll both get what we want."

Belle looks up, and Andrew feels a soft chill pass through him at the sight of her pleased smile. She could pry sins from the lips of a saint with that look.

"This is great," she sighs, reading through the clauses. "Thank you. This... I've been waiting for this."

He says nothing. He knows she has been.

She signs where she has to and puts her initials where he indicates, reading thoroughly – which he finds more than appealing in a future business partner – and questioning where appropriate. They confirm the details of her pay, in percentage rather than an absolute amount, and expenses. He also makes sure she understands the full depth to their new partnership.

"I'll need to train you," Andrew tells her, not unkindly.

Belle nods. "I know. The smile and the footwork, too, right?"

He bites back a colourful word to call Regina, and simply says, "No. We don't need to work on that."

She smiles at that – _really_ smiles – and it's like he's just handed her the fucking _moon_. Her shy and pleased flutter of her sooty eyelashes is enough of a thank you for his, frankly, half-baked compliment.

"So," she says after a moment's silence. "Just the tricks, then?"

He smiles, long and slow. "_Acts_, dearie, and I'm going to teach you them all. But, ah, we'll need to spend some time in Scotland, at my home in Dumfries."

"Sounds wonderful," she tells him without a second's hesitation, before signing her name on the very last line.

The deal is struck, the contract signed, and Andrew can suddenly breathe easy.

He has an assistant. He has an _act_. He has a chance.


	2. Part Two

Belle, to Andrew's relief, is a light packer.

He finds – as he brings the car to a halt in front of her small, pebble-dashed house with a wonky wooden gate and little hedge-walls – the only luggage she deems necessary to fit into his Fiesta and take to Scotland is a small suitcase and her handbag. She is also, it seems, a well-seasoned road-traveller, because she smiles and holds up four different newspapers and magazines for the journey, as well as three packets of Wine Gums, lemon sherbets, and Fruit Pastilles for him to see.

It's been three days since their breakfast meeting where, after signing his contract, he had asked her how long she needed before they could leave. Belle had only asked for three days to settle her affairs, and he'd been more than happy to wait, simply glad and relieved to find such a reasonable and easy-going woman in Belle French.

He would have given her more time, if she had asked, but she hasn't and he's eager to begin work on his– _their _act.

Andrew unclips his seatbelt, pockets the keys, and opens the door to the car, unable to stop a smile crossing his face as Belle steps onto the cracked pavement to meet him. She's in another of her unflattering floral dresses, with a little brown belt, but he can't help but think she looks prettier every time he sees her.

She's rosy and smiling, and she makes his palms itch with how soft her curls look as they shift in a cool, early morning breeze.

The sun is hiding behind some wispy grey clouds, but Belle is brimming with near-tangible excitement like it's the first fucking day of summer.

"I'm so _excited_," she rushes out, jiggling slightly where she stands on the curb in her sensible librarian shoes. "And I've brought provisions."

Her sunny spell is contagious, and Andrew feels his lip curl in a grin as he glances at the sherbet lemons in her hand.

"Dibs," he says, and Belle looks positively _playful_ even as she feigns haughtiness.

"There won't be any of that," she huffs, a smile blooming as she steps around him to circle the car. "The lemons are my favourite, too. Haven't you heard of sharing?"

He lifts her suitcase – which is much heavier than he'd anticipated, causing him to let out a grunt and catch the bottom of it with his other hand – and hefts it to the boot, where Belle meets him after putting her provisions onto the passenger seat through the open window.

"Yes, well, doesn't mean I like it," Andrew answers, making Belle breathe a laugh. "Er, keys. Would you..."

Belle follows his eyes and glances down at the fob peeking from his trouser pocket. She gives him a smile and tugs out the keys to open the boot. Andrew smothers the thought of how close she had been to actually touching him.

He settles her case in among his own paltry amount of luggage, before closing the back and joining Belle in the car. She's looking at everything, from the tapes strewn across the backseat to the tiny black and white magic wand hanging from the rear-view mirror on a piece of ancient elastic.

"My son," Andrew explains shortly, unsure if Belle wants to hear this. "He says it's lucky."

She gives him an utterly genuine smile and he knows she won't mind him telling her about Bailey in the future. She reaches out and rubs her thumb over the ageing and sentimental decoration.

"For luck," she says when he looks at her, before glancing at her house and then resolutely ahead.

He turns the key in the ignition and takes off the hand brake, before turning the car around and heading down the small lane, away from Belle's house and towards the M2.

* * *

The lemon sherbets last all of two hours, but Belle keeps Andrew entertained, whether it's with stories from the paper or little snippets of information from her life in Australia.

He learns, as she passes him a dark Fruit Pastille, that her father wanted her to marry his best friend's son, George Gaston, and while the bloke was alright, he had a nasty habit of running round on his girlfriend with his exes, and Belle hadn't been keen on getting involved with him.

"My dad blew up," she says, her accent thickening for a moment as she frowns out on the ten o'clock shower the car and the motorway is currently getting. "Apparently he'd been planning our wedding since we were kids, like some spinsterish matchmaker. I wouldn't be surprised if he had our floral arrangements all picked out."

Andrew snorts and glances at her. "So, why acting?"

Belle smiles a little wistfully as she brings another sweet up to her lips. "My mum."

There's such a long pause – only broken by the crackling tune on a radio station that is fading in and out with all the rain – that Andrew thinks she's not going to elaborate, but elaborate she does.

Belle turns to him, looking – from what he can see out of the corner of his eye – excited by the prospect of actually speaking to someone about her family.

"She used to be this ballerina wannabe." She grins. "At least, that's what she always said, before she passed. But grandma wouldn't hear of her going on all the diets and hurting herself training – you know, that stuff – so she enrolled her in a drama club. Mum caught the bug, and that was it. She got into some local productions, and then a few things on T.V. when she got older. She met my dad and had me, but she kept going, kept acting, and then she died, and it felt like she wasn't finished. Like everything was half-done, half-written, and I wanted to finish it for her. I wanted to go where she never got to. And then Killian came along."

For a second, Andrew nearly loses control of the car. He swerves a little, before he catches himself and straightens up, heart pounding.

"Killian Jones?" He hears himself ask, incredulous. "Killian fucking _Jones_?"

Andrew looks over quick enough to see Belle bite her bottom lip and half-wince in the silence that follows his outburst, a silence punctuated by the creaking _scree-scree_ of the frail windscreen wipers.

"I've never said his name, have I?" She asks eventually, obviously not looking for an answer as she twists her hands in her lap.

"No," he says anyway, staring at the lorry thundering on ahead of them, only half seeing it. "You haven't."

"I didn't want to ruin my chances," Belle sighs. "And you didn't ask."

No, she's right, he hadn't, but..._Killian Jones_?

The man is a legend, mainly for having had everything and fucking it up. He had been incredibly popular before he'd given up his magic. He'd nearly had his own television show, had been rumoured to be taking up an offer of a huge tour, and had a show that kids had died for, with nautical-themed acts, lots of flash, and beautiful girls hanging off of him.

Andrew has never met him, and now? Well, he never wants to.

"He just left you?" He asks eventually, once he's sorted through his thoughts.

"Kicked me out," she corrects him, opening a glossy magazine. "I had to find a youth hostel for the night."

Andrew is unreasonably angry, both for her and for himself. The latter he's not sure of – shouldn't he be happy now that she's _his_ assistant? But no, he's pissed, because she was put in an awful situation in a foreign country, and by none other than the only magician who Andrew has ever considered to be a true rival.

Jones had been touring the same time Andrew had, and while they had both garnered different types of attention and different audiences, there hadn't really been much call for a traditional magic act at the time. There had only been room for one, and Jones had gone down in flames. Andrew had thought himself safe, but then Milah's storm had hit and wrecked him.

But now he has Belle French, and time to perfect an act, and a spot in a renowned magic festival. He'll blow Killian Jones out of the water for good.

His musings are interrupted by dulcet tones softly strumming from the radio, and he glances over to see a station hasn't magically started working; Belle's taken a tape off of the back seat and put it in.

Her eyes are sparking with good, warm humour. "Thought it was appropriate."

It's The Rain Song by Led Zeppelin, and it makes him want to smile even as he looks back out on the dreary road.

* * *

The drive had been long and cold and rain-filled, but, luckily, the heater in his car had decided to play nice and had kept them warm through the hours.

They'd stopped outside of Preston to get lunch in the Burger King at a service station, and it had been nice to stretch his legs and have another easy conversation with Belle.

He glances at her as they drive into Dumfries – where the rain finally lets off enough for her to take a good look around at her new home for the next few months – and he realises dimly that he's been finding himself more attracted to her by the hour.

Andrew has had plenty of long car rides, mostly with assistants, but he's never found himself _not_ wanting to drive a sharp object through his cranium before. Belle has been the perfect companion, and it's driving him _crazy_.

She's lovely and witty, and she smells like perfume and woman, and...God, he wants her. More than he did before.

Belle distracts him by gasping as they cross over an intersection. "Oh, my God!"

Thinking there's a child running into the road that he hasn't seen, or something else equally terrible, his eyes dart about the slick road and his heart begins to thud sharply.

"What?"

"Robert Burns' house!" She exclaims excitedly, pointing to the white building down a little road with the words emblazoned in large letters on the side. "I didn't know he used to live here."

"_Oh_,"Andrew breathes a sigh of relief, calming his heart, and nods. "Yeah, it's a museum."

"He writing's wonderful," Belle gushes. "He inspired all my favourite poets! Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley..."

"We can go sometime, if you want," he finds himself promising her. "Before we leave for Edinburgh."

She makes a pleased sound and seems so excited by the prospect of visiting the museum that she immediately leans across the hand brake and kisses his cheek, breathing out a sweet, "_Thank you_."

Andrew's so distracted he nearly misses the turning he needs to make, and, subsequently, nearly causes an accident by swerving suddenly. He's sure that Belle doesn't have quite so good a handle on the Scottish accent and language so as to understand exactly what the drivers behind him yell out as they lean out of their windows, but his reply of a single, solitary finger must tell her enough, because she smothers a laugh behind her hand and turns rosy.

He tells her they're close to the house, as he makes a few more turnings and trundles down two long streets, and Belle seems just as excited to see _his_ home.

They soon end up on his short street, driving past houses secluded by tall trees and hedges alike, and they head to the very bottom of the close to reach his gravelled drive. He takes the stone-strewn lane, and after about a hundred yards the high hedges guarding his property open up into the forecourt in front of the house.

Andrew turns a full circle around the square, sparing a glance for Belle's expression, before parking close to the drive. Once the engine is off, he can really take in Belle's face.

She's smiling, looking like a great adventure is lying ahead of her, and he cracks his own grin because of it.

The house is fairly old, with three floors, made of dull reddish-brown brick. It boasts two thick chimneys atop the dark, tiled, slate roof, and has eleven windows facing out onto the drive. The lower bay windows have their own miniature weather-beaten battlements, and Andrew likes to think of them as his little castle's defences. The door is a deep blue, painted by Bae – the self-proclaimed _artiste_ – himself, and has a bronze knocker in the shape of a lion's head. Above the door is a small, stained glass window, with the image of a dark red flower in the centre.

He'd bought the house while he was still a successful performer and still had the money for it, and even though he's now eating into his nest egg, and the house is falling into disrepair, and he had to sell his Mercedes-Benz, and he can't afford to pay anyone to look after the place, and...so many other things, he hadn't had (and still doesn't) the heart to sell the house. Not with its door and its window and its battlements.

"Welcome to Rose Cottage," Andrew murmurs, causing Belle's smile to widen and her eyes to meet his.

"It's _perfect_," she tells him, without a shred of artifice, and he feels like kissing her.

* * *

Once they've emptied the car and he's shown her to her room, Andrew lets Belle explore while he gathers together what plans he has for the show in his converted attic study, or his 'inner sanctum' as Bae likes to call it.

He throws his jacket over the back of his worn chair and tidies up the desk, arranging the folders and sketches and little working models of ideas that he's had time to come up with while planning his re-birth into the showbiz world.

He doesn't bother tidying the actual space, because there's so much lying about that it isn't really worth it. It's the largest room in the house, and the one in the state of most disrepair and general untidiness.

Paraphernalia lines the angled walls, sloping up into the roof, along with frayed posters that have seen better days and tattered photographs from the countries he's visited. In the far corner, opposite the set of stairs into the room, there is a lidless chest full of tools, and in the other behind him there are different types and sizes of boxes, painted and unpainted, whether made for making a lovely woman disappear or producing something impossible.

There's an ancient and bursting wardrobe to the left, next to the single circular window in the room, filled with different costumes and rolls of materials, and a rickety table to the right, covered in electrical equipment and coloured filters for the small spotlights fixed to the ceiling.

Andrew props open the window with the empty matchbox on the sill and leaves to see to Belle. He finds her on the ground floor, happily testing his maroon sofa and armchairs for comfort.

He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, fighting a smile. "Still exploring?"

"Of course!" Her blue eyes meet his, and a dimpled grin lights her face. "You know, you should give me the tour."

He can't say no to her – at least, not to those dimples – so he waves her over and begins by the front door. He starts with the hallway and the wonky, framed photographs there, telling her which countries he took the pictures in and which shows had led him there. Belle listens with quiet and palpable interest.

He shows her the lounge, with a smile, and comments on its dark walls and cosy nature like an estate agent trying to make a sale. It makes Belle laugh.

"Can I try out the chairs?" She asks playfully, and he gestures to the sofa laid out in front of the large stone fireplace.

"Be my guest."

He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans as she continues the charade, before he has to pry her from the chairs to continue the tour. He shows her the dining room across the hall, which has always been far more elegant than he's ever had a need for, with a too-long mahogany table and matching chairs, though he's sold most of them.

"That's pretty," she comments, pointing at the small chandelier that hangs from the ceiling, above the table.

Andrew nods, though inwardly he curses the thing because he's never been able to get it down. If he had, it would have been sold a long time ago.

Belle becomes enraptured with the two large paintings on either wall, both of Scottish highland scenes and painted by Bae a couple of years ago as a birthday present. They're beautiful, and Andrew looks at them often.

Next, he leads her into the kitchen, which is a little more modern than the rest of the house but not by much. He removed the ancient stove and replaced it with an oven a long time ago and he's bought a few appliances here and there, but he's kept the dark tiled floor and the faintly yellow walls, along with the original polished wood countertops and stone farmhouse sink.

Andrew shows Belle upstairs, letting her peek into Bailey's room – painted by his son in dark gold and carpeted by himself – which is only decorated with the few possessions Bae left, like his deflated leather football and the St. Andrew's flag pinned on the wall above the head of the bed.

Next is the bright white bathroom, and he informs Belle of the squeaky cold tap in the sink and the temperamental hot tap in the bath. Then the master bedroom – his – which looks far grander in reds and oranges and with the four poster bed than it actually is.

He glances into her room at the end of the hall, with its powder blue walls and framed pressed flowers hanging from them, before turning to her.

"Don't think I need to show you around there," he says.

Belle smiles. "Mr Gold, I just want to say that this is a wonderful house, and...I can't thank you enough for letting me stay."

His hands find his pockets again as he attempts to brush off the fluster caused by her frank appreciation. "You can thank me by calling me Andrew. Gold's more my stage persona than my surname."

She nods and clasps her hands behind her back. "Mine was Frenchie."

"What?"

"That's what Killian called me when I came on the stage – Frenchie – and then I'd do this sexy little two-step and everyone would whistle," Belle explains.

Andrew stares at her for a moment. "Well, I won't complain about a sexy dance," he tells her, knowing he _really won't_. "But I'm not calling you that."

"Thank God," she groans, wrinkling her nose. "I never liked it."

He considers it for a moment, trying not to lose track of his thoughts as he looks into her eyes. "I think you should have something a little more glamorous," he eventually says. "What about..."

"Belle?" She suggests, a little cautiously, and Andrew's eyebrow hitches.

"Not that I'm complaining, but you don't want something different?"

She shrugs a delicate shoulder, the corner of her mouth turning upwards. "I'd like to be known for me this time around."

He can't agree more.

Andrew points to the stairs across the way, leading up to his study, feeling almost fucking giddy with the prospect of beginning their work.

"Want to see what I'm up to?"

Belle heads off up the stairs without him, she's so eager, and he's left to catch up, smothering a grin. He meets her at his desk, once she's looked around to her heart's content, and sits her in his chair, before opening up a battered notebook in front of her.

The first page reads – '_Aquarius Illusion_' – and Belle lights up, eyes meeting his over her slim shoulder.

"Lucky I've got my swimming certificates," she quips, and he can't hold back a laugh as he leans over to show her all his other ideas.

This year, Andrew knows, will be one to remember.

* * *

**Author's note**: Okay, so now I'm estimating four/five parts to this fic. The count is gradually increasing with the more of it I complete, so we'll just have to see what it ends up like! Thank you for all the support, it really helps.


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